


The Case of the Multiplying Doctors

by Kahvi, Roadstergal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Drugs, F/M, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While working a tedious case for Mycroft, Sherlock finds he keeps getting more and more distracted by John, and the idle thoughts he inspires. John, in turn, finds himself distracted by the case, or rather, the attractive woman at the center of it. This leads them both to rash actions they will soon regret...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Multiplying Doctors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarmydoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarmydoctor/gifts).



> For the lovely Anarmydoctor, who gave us an irresistible idea that got rather out of hand.

Contrary to popular opinion, not every day in London was cold, rainy, and foggy. Take this particular day. Clear skies, warm sun – warm enough that the girls were wearing shorts and skirts, giving plenty of opportunity to admire their legs, and low-cut tops, giving plenty of opportunity to admire their breasts. Admiring breasts was one of John’s favorite activities - small breasts, big breasts, perky breasts and ones that needed a fair bit of help from an overworked bra, and ones that were pushed together to make a charming valley of cleavage.

"Stop thinking about shagging every other girl that walks by. It's distracting."

And then, there was Sherlock. "It's natural! Sex is... _natural_ , Sherlock."

"Not the extent that you think about it. You should have yourself cloned so you can shag yourself. It'd save a lot of time."

"That's not the way it works."

"That's not _my_ problem. And don't bother telling me _yet again_ that you're not gay - I know you're not; you don't have to be to want to have sex with yourself."

"I have sex with myself all the time," John muttered into his tea. About the only sex he had, these days.

"Hardly the same, is it?"

"No, it's not. Thanks for reminding me." The reason _why_ John didn't have sex much, after all, was due to him dropping everything when Sherlock requested - which tended to be just when things were getting good with a girlfriend, and that seemed to happen shortly before she stopped being his girlfriend.

Hm. No quip about 'how could you possibly know' - politeness, or just waiting for a better opportunity to strike? "No one is stopping you."

"It helps if I think about girls, and apparently, _that's_ something you have a problem with."

"Just do it on your own time."

"I _am_ on my own time! You asked me to lunch!" John protested.

"I asked you come with me to this restaurant; I presumed you would eat - anything else is a distraction."

"Well, sorry about my brain."

"No matter. There's Doctor Rogers and her team. Do be quiet and let me observe them - I hear they do a fantastic cheese and onion pie here."

* * *

Much as he hated doing anything that even vaguely benefited Mycroft – and Sherlock did hate that so very _very_ much – there were certain things one simply had to make peace with when one’s brother was in _de facto_ control of the British government. Apparently, one of which was wasting time in a mediocre so-called restaurant - the sort that desperately didn’t want to look like a pub, yet despite having table service and what they no doubt considered posh curtains and furnishings, served what was unmistakably pub food and expensive lager, not that Sherlock was having either. The problem, unfortunately, was this - he owed Mycroft a favor. 

_The Case of the Pet Hedgehog_ , as John had chosen to call it (his reasons, as always, his own) had been quite the little earner – momentarily. Sherlock never varied his fees, with the exception of occasionally refusing them, but people tended to insist on little gifts and favors and trinkets, which had, to date, included an African Grey parrot (foisted off on one of Mrs. Hudson’s seemingly endless supply of nephews and nieces), seven acers of land in the Scottish Highlands (sold), a lifetime supply of honey, the current favorable lease to his Baker Street flat, several hands in marriage (refused), a set of ancient Japanese prints, and so on. This particular case, for all its tedious obviousness, had been presented by a high-ranking official within the NHS, who had promptly given Sherlock access to quite a few databases that should not even exist.

It had taken Mycroft approximately twenty minutes to find out, revoke everything and chastise the client, thus preventing any possible repeat business. To his credit, Mycroft kept the matter from the increasingly interested press, thereby putting Sherlock in the fantastically awkward position of being both grateful and vengeful simultaneously. Which, in turn, had brought him here, to a no-questions-asked stakeout. _Just keep an eye on her; see what she does._ The only thing Sherlock had been able to snatch from the briefing from which Mycroft was reading was the word ‘clones’, briefly reflected in the contact lenses on his iris. The word had haunted Sherlock’s mind, and dreams, lately. 

Compounding it all was John’s attitude; the way in which Sherlock’s eye was always drawn to him, be he simply staring at a set of mammary glands or picking haplessly at a pie. It had gotten worse, of late. Maybe there was something about the weather.

* * *

John poked at his pie, trying not to think that the indicated Doctor Rogers was, actually, quite sexy. In the way of these things, the more he – as requested – tried _not_ to think about it, the more his brain fed him lurid images of undressing her, putting his mouth on her nipples, stroking her...

"...and there you go again." Sherlock sighed, keeping his eyes very carefully on the bread rolls on Doctor Rogers's table. John was practically radiating lust; this was not helping.

"It's not fair, is it?" John muttered fiercely. "You tell me not to, I can't think of anything else!"

"All right, fine; my erection tilts somewhat to the left, and is slightly bent at the tip. That should set you straight for a few hours." Sherlock threw his unused napkin on his plate. Give him a mental image he would find sexually repulsive. That should work.

John licked his lips. He had seen the cock in question, dancing around like some grotesque marionette as John pursued a high Sherlock around the flat, trying to get a robe on him before Lestrade made it up the stairs. He hadn't even thought about it erect, really. Hardly his area.

Even _that_ hadn't helped. Well, nothing doing. Sherlock settled back in his chair, watching the little group askance. It was going to be a long day.

"What does she do, anyway?" Please, let it have nothing to do with sex or reproduction or... the human body overall.

"Experimental microbiology. I did tell you. Excuse me a moment." John's obvious arousal was proving too much of a distraction, and the supposed meeting Mycroft wanted witnessed would not be on for a further half hour. Sherlock needed only ten minutes to clear his head efficiently. Perhaps seven, if the stalls were all free and he didn't have to wait.

John nodded, taking a bite of his pie. It was warm, smooth, and luscious in his mouth. That wasn't helping, either.

* * *

John licked his fork absently after he took the last bite of pie. Hideous manners, but it really _was_ an excellent pie, and...

Doctor Rogers was looking at him. Almost instinctively, he raised his eyebrows questioningly. She smiled back at him, and it wasn't a wholly sincere smile, but - well, did she really have ravishing green eyes, or was it just his recent involuntary celibacy speaking? Did it matter? He put the fork down, trying to smile disarmingly, and - yes, her eyes fluttered to the men next to her, and she raised her finger slightly to indicate them. A fairly universal signal, really, for, _Shall I drop these bores and come with you?_

John nodded. Yes, she had pretty eyes, and dark hair pulled into that kind of severe bun that seemed to go with the type of straight-laced-in-person-animal-in-bed that he could really use a little of. Sod Sherlock, sod his case.

The doctor rose from the table, making some quick excuses, and walked over to John's table. " _So_ ," she said.

John leaned back, smiling. "So."

"I couldn't help noticing that you were trying to get my attention."

John spread his hands. "You're a very interesting woman." Only partly flattery; she was lovely, and as a microbiologist, she had to have some intelligence, as well - which was a very sexy thing for him indeed.

"What an interesting way of putting it." Her smile was a little wry, but perhaps she wasn't used to being flirted with in public? "Perhaps you'd like to come speak with me... somewhere a bit more private?"

"I'd love that," John replied, with sincerity.

'Somewhere private' turned out to be the rear seat of a black Mercedes-Benz with heavily tinted windows. Doctor Rogers slipped in with a smile, holding the door open behind her. A bit forward, perhaps, but John never objected to that kind of thing. As soon as he closed the door and turned to the good doctor with a grin, however, a chloroform-soaked rag was clapped over his mouth and nose, which was definitely the kind of thing John _did_ object to.

His struggles were brief and weak, however, and the world went black rather quickly.

* * *

Of course there was a queue. Sherlock had concluded as much from the number of patrons and their movements, but said conclusion had not been at the forefront of his mind. Now he waited, with forced patience, as man after dull man made his way out of the stalls. As the queue thinned to three, he made a number out of checking his hair in the mirror, then sighing elaborately. He knew he could look flamboyant without much effort, and predictably, it made those few still lingering uncomfortable enough to reconsider how much they needed to go right _now_. Soon enough, he had relative privacy, and headed for the nearest stall - which would be the cleanest; most often used, hence most often cleaned, plus the staff would begin with this one, meaning it got the most attention.

Clean it was, almost to a fault. Sherlock considered briefly if there were any cameras (there quite often were, ostensibly to keep an eye on drug users), then shrugged it off; he had lived with the ghost of surveillance most of his life, certainly long enough to know that if whomever was watching you cared enough to pay attention as you wanked, you might as well give them a good show.

He settled down on the closed, dry as a desert, lid, and undid his fly with a sigh of comfort. These trousers were really not made to contain more than his own slight frame and an averaged sized penis at rest, and the relief was welcome. For a moment, just that was enough, but Sherlock didn't have time to waste. Walking around like this would be uncomfortable and distracting; he would have to take care of it, and quickly.

Quickly. He wrapped his hand around his erection, uncertainly. Normally, he never really _thought_ about anything when he masturbated; it was an itch to scratch, a biological function to be tolerated. Not about sex, but release. Lately, however, he had fallen into something of a bad habit. He knew he was attracted to John; it wasn't the first person to which he had been, but the first he had ever felt the need to get himself off thinking about. John. John, naked. Sherlock bit his lip, stroking carefully. No, this would not do; he had gotten used to drawing this out, luxuriating in it; something to do to keep boredom at bay. Wouldn't do now; he needed more. He tried to imagine himself, on his knees, John's cock in his mouth; despite the appeal of the scenario (he could almost _taste_ it), something about it put him off. Realism. That was it. John would never be interested in men, much less Sherlock, who - how had John put it - was a _machine._ John only rarely meant it as a derogatory term, but it was hardly the sort of label you'd apply to an object of desire. So, no. Not that.

What, then?

John, masturbating? Appealing that, very appealing, but not quite... Sherlock only barely managed to stifle his surprised moan as he struck upon the perfect solution. _Oh, yes, please..._

* * *

John blinked, moving his head back and forth. The lights were bright, too bright, blazing through his eyelids. His back was against something hard, his arms twisted uncomfortably under him. He moved - or tried to move; something dug uncomfortably into his wrists and ankles. He was _cold_.

Breathe. Settle your brain, John, he told himself. You were drugged.

The blur above him resolved into a tile ceiling - huge industrial segments, housing ducting behind them. He was on a cold, hard floor, the coldness emphasized by him having been stripped. His arse ached from pressing against the unyielding floor. Thin plastic straps dug at his wrists and ankles - cable ties, drawn tight.

John turned his head from side to side. Laboratory benches rose on either side of him, cluttered with the paraphernalia of a molecular biology lab; bottles of reagents and boxed kits loomed on storage shelves high above.

"So. You're awake."

John rose to a seated position, meeting the eyes of Doctor Rogers. She sat on a swivel chair with no back, looking down at him, her face flat. "What is all this about?"

"You know very well what it's about," Doctor Rogers snapped. "You should find a better employer. No weapons, no recording devices - and yes, we looked." She glanced farther down John's body - well, perhaps it wasn't just the cold tile floor that had made John's arse ache. He felt a surge of anger as she continued. "They expected you to - what, seduce me, then find a drive just lying around to put the information on? Rather high esteem they hold you in."

"What - what is this _they_? You've mistaken me for someone else." Yes, he had wanted to seduce her, true, but _that_ desire was now gone.

"You're going to play it that way, then?" She slid off of the chair, calling to someone outside of John's field of vision. "You two - come here."

John let himself fall back on the floor as two men came into view from the other side of the left-hand bench. They might have been the same men as had been with Doctor Rogers at the cafe; surely Sherlock would berate him for not noting that, but they certainly had the right overall appearance - Caucasian, dark-haired, middle-aged but fit, three-piece suits. John watched them warily, and as soon as one was within reach, rocked backwards, reared his feet up, and kicked the man solidly in the crotch. He doubled over with a satisfying wheeze.

"Oh, for..." Doctor Rogers complained, and the other man kicked John solidly in the side. His breath wooshed out, and the man took advantage of the time it took for John to gasp his breath back in to grab him and haul him bodily into a chair behind him - unlike the one Doctor Rogers had been sitting in, it had a back, and the man quickly strapped John's torso to it with a belt, leaving John's hands dangling out of the gap in the back of the chair.

"Right," Doctor Rogers said from behind him. "We'll have to calm him down a bit. Hold him, would you?" John struggled as the nameless, suited fellow put him in a headlock; the man was wearing far too much cologne, choking John's nostrils. But his arms were strong, and John's struggles proved futile. 

John heard little noises behind him, ones that sounded a bit familiar - the _thwap_ of examination gloves, the rip of a sterile package. Then, a needle in the back of his hand, taped securely, and a cool rush of fluid - saline? After a moment, something else - a slight burn.

"We need your cooperation," Doctor Rogers murmured in his ear. "Work with us, and this will be so much easier."

* * *

It only took a few minutes for whatever they were infusing into John to take effect. Slowly, gradually, he stopped struggling - after all, what was the point? It was a comfortable enough chair (if a bit chilly), he could just lie back in it... yes, it felt rather good to lie back. Particularly when the suited man let go, taking his reek away. "Your cologne stinks," John informed him.

The man frowned, but Doctor Rogers, walking around to face John, nodded with satisfaction. "True enough. Anything else you feel like telling me?" She put her hand gently on his thigh. 

Rather a nice-looking girl, really. Nice eyes, nice hair, silky-smooth voice. John should introduce himself. "Name's John. You're pretty."

The doctor leaned back, grasping a lab coat from atop the bench and tossing it onto John's erection with a look of mild distaste. Well, she _was_ a pretty girl - shouldn't she be flattered? "Don't you have anything more _important_ to tell me?"

John considered. "Not really. I was just out for lunch, and I saw you. I thought you were flirting. I like flirting. But this wasn't so nice of you."

"Oh, good god," Doctor Rogers sighed.

* * *

_You should have yourself cloned so you can shag yourself ._

It wasn't that much of a leap, mentally. John _did_ have sex with himself, rather frequently if Sherlock was any judge (which, of course, he was), and seemed to enjoy it. So then, the idea of _two_ Johns; one naked ( _seen from behind, his buttocks firm, tightly muscled, utilitarian; for use more than for show, though it was quite some show, regardless_ ) the other sitting, looking up, critically. Yes, that was a good start. Sherlock leaned back and began to stroke himself with a firm, hastened pace, breathing very, very evenly.

_The seated John is amused; possibly he likes what he sees, possibly he finds it a bit ridiculous; quite likely both. He reaches out and pulls the standing John towards him by the back of his legs, fingers splaying out over his ass, searching between the cheeks. The standing John huffs in a breath, but remains, staring the other man down. The seated John seems more amused by that, and opens his mouth; not to laugh, but to brush his lips against the naked John's erection._

_That is something on which to dwell. Long, but more importantly, thick; veined and darkly purple with rushing blood, foreskin pulled back to show a swelling head, glistening already. He wants this. John wants this. Both of him._

_The seated John takes it in his mouth, keeps looking up, that hint of a _tease_ in his eyes; like this is a joke they are both playing on one another. Perhaps it is. He pulls the naked John's legs further apart, presses fingers deeper between them, massaging legs and buttocks, takes his good time as he moans over what is, for all intents and purposes, his own cock. It does not take him long before he's clawing at his own belt, opening it and his jeans, digging into them to find a more than matching member to fit into his fist. He thrusts into his hand, swallowing his own cock, moaning with such deep guttural pleasure that the walls (but there are no walls; there is nothing) must surely shake with the effort, and the standing John is begging, asking him to give more, but he won't; he knows himself, knows he would rather draw this out - and out, but it's too much; they're both grunting, like animals, rutting against one another-_

Sherlock yelled as he came, immediately jumping up and scanning the room, startled - but he was alone.

* * *

This... this was actually not so bad. Yes, the cable ties hurt, but the chair was reasonably comfortable, and he had never been kidnapped by somebody so pretty. John told her so, and she sighed, putting her face in her hand. "You should relax more," John told her. "You look terribly stressed."

"What do you think?" the man with the foul cologne asked from over John's shoulder.

"I think it's very annoying that you're still here, and the belt you tied me up with is too tight, and..."

"Shut it," the man said, and John did, feeling slightly peeved. Why had he asked, then?

"Either he's the best agent we've ever come across, or he really _was_ just trying to flirt with me." Doctor Rogers looked down at John, her brow furrowed.

"Of course I was. Why wouldn't I?"

* * *

A visibly uncomfortable patron tried not to brush too closely by Sherlock as he entered and Sherlock left; one of the men who had left hurriedly, before. Sherlock amused himself for a few moments by deducing which of the bored looking women left in the restaurant proper was his date. He had identified the young brunette by the door and was about to mention it to John- but John was not at their table.

Sherlock froze, immediately re-scanning the room. _Rogers, gone. Not all of her entourage; clever, made it less noticeable (assumed she was in the bathroom on the other side of the restaurant, didn't notice coat left at table was decoy; idiot); one less car parked outside._

The tall, deceptively slim-looking man left at the table lifted his eyebrows and rose, but Sherlock was already out the door.

* * *

"- and there's a fifty in it for you if you get me there in under ten minutes"

Sherlock showed the notes at the driver, who shrugged before setting off. The taxi veered dangerously, sending Sherlock careening into the wall. "Should have put yer belt on, mate."

"Just drive, please." Dear gods. The world greatest consulting detective, distracted by a wank. This wasn’t _him_ ; this wasn’t the sort of thing he did. _Why_ had he done it? 

"Fair enough." The cabbie narrowed his eyes. "Oy, it's Sherlock Holmes, innit?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Perhaps if he ignored it...

"You are!"

"I thought you just called me an 'it'" Sherlock mumbled, glancing at his watch. Four minutes. They could make it, yet.

"Always did wonder, why don't you drive yerself? You know London like the back of your hand, so they say..."

 _And how convenient it would be for me to carry an automobile in my pocket for those moments where I needed one,_ Sherlock groused, internally. "There's another fifty if you get me there _quietly_."

They rode on in silence.

* * *

"We could torture him," the man with the evil cologne suggested from over John's shoulder.

"That doesn't actually work, you know.” John knew a little about this, after all. “We took courses in this - the torture....eee will break and tell you what you want to hear, or won't break, and you don't get anything either way..."

"Oh, would you _please_ shut up?" Doctor Rogers sighed, leaning against the bench and rubbing her temples. She looked rather stressed, and John told her so.

"I know the studies are mostly case-control, and those all have their limitations, but most of them agree that chronic stress is a factor in many negative cardiovascular endpoints, they just disagree on the magnitude..." John trailed off as a noise, somewhat like bowling with glass pins, came through the door. "What was that?"

* * *

Get to the door. There were voices (two? Yes, several, but two of the important ones, important _one_ ), and faint arguing, and good Christ, that had been, in the canister - no time, no _time!_ Sherlock broke through the door... and halted in shock.

"Oh, hello! It's Sherlock! He must be here to rescue me." John frowned. "He shouldn't have to do that so often - I'm the bloody soldier..."

Doctor Rogers looked back and forth between Sherlock and John, her eyes wide. "Who?"

Two massive, ugly men with disastrous choices in personal hygiene lunged for Sherlock. He dodged one of them, but as he did, the other man hit him right in the jaw. He swayed, trying to catch a glimpse of John - it sounded like there were... but no, that didn't make any sense.

"Hey! You can't do that!" John wiggled in the chair. He was fairly well restrained, but not so much that he couldn't kick at the closest goon with his bound feet.

"John!" There was a strange sort of echo, like - one of the men hit him in the solar plexus, and Sherlock promptly passed out.

"Hey!" John yelled, kicking at the goon so hard that he toppled the chair. The IV line ripped painfully out of his hand, and he crashed into Doctor Rogers, taking them both to the ground. She wheezed, pawing at him. That was the only good part of the whole scenario, John decided.

"Pick him up," Doctor Rogers gasped, and the man with the evil cologne grabbed John and yanked him upright. The other goon was busy trussing Sherlock up. Doctor Rogers turned to John. "Who is that?"

"Sherlock Holmes." John frowned. "Don't you read the internet?"

"Yes, I..." Doctor Rogers glanced back and forth between the two. "Oh. Oh... oh god. He's... Are you... you're that Doctor Watson who writes the blog, aren't you." John nodded, and she sat heavily in the closest chair. "I've made rather a hideous mistake, I think."

"Will you kiss me to make up for it?" John asked. It _never_ hurt to ask.

* * *

Sherlock had been right; there were _two_ of them. Two Johns. Of _course;_ cloning. She was a microbiologist; that's what they did. That sort of thing. She'd cloned John, and now there were two. Of him. 

They would need another bed.

"Thank you," one John said, getting up.

"We couldn't have made it without you," said the other, as the other figures in the room softly faded away.

"I know."

"We're very grateful," the first John explained. He was naked; they both were. Only one was tied to a chair, however; the other was helping him free. They smiled at one another, then glanced at Sherlock. He felt rather strange; almost drunk, but what they meant was obvious and clear. Sherlock nodded, and John climbed up into John's lap.

They were both erect, and slick, somehow - a by-product of the cloning process, no doubt; no matter - their bodies fitting perfectly against one another. Twinned. Their mouths and limbs moved in tandem; sleek fingers stroking sides, hips, thighs; forcing their way between buttocks and into mouths. They liked to suck. (Somewhere far off, someone was yelling.)

* * *

John pulled his trousers on. The effects of whatever she had administered to him were definitely wearing off, leaving him not a little put out. " _Espionage_?"

"Well, you can't blame me for thinking that." Doctor Rogers peeled back Sherlock's eyelids.

"Yes, I can! Leave him be, you're not a medical doctor."

Doctor Rogers frowned at him, but apparently took him at his word, and stepped back. "What do I do with you two now?"

"You bloody well let us go, is what you do!" John buttoned his trousers, then knelt next to Sherlock, putting his fingers on the man's neck to check his pulse. It was a bit fast, worryingly so. "Sherlock?" he said, quietly.

"I can't do that... you... know things..." Doctor Rogers wrung her hands. John glanced up at her. She looked out of her depth. Well, she was, by all appearances, a scientist, not used to dealing with… people.

* * *

A hand – one of the John’s (did it matter which) reaching out to him. An invitation – nonsensical; there was no interest... but perhaps gratitude? Sherlock was in no mind to look gift horses in the mouth. Mouth. He opened his, letting John’s fingers work their way inside, slowly. The other John looked on, eyes wide, pupils dilated; that meant something, Sherlock knew. Something. Everything was vague and dull around the edges outside the pressure in his mouth, the salty taste of clever skin. 

He sucked.

* * *

"Sherlock?" John glanced down at Sherlock's mouth, over his fingers. "Are you... all right?"

"What did you do to him?" Doctor Rogers scuttled over to the two very nervous-looking goons, commencing a hastily whispered conversation.

* * *

"Is that all right?"

John's wet fingers in John's mouth, sucking and thrusting, such eager bodies. _Yes_ , Sherlock said - out loud, thought; it didn't seem to matter. _Fuck him._

"All right." They shifted, fingers pulling out of mouths and thrust elsewhere, hard, and it felt like... something in his mouth again?

* * *

John carefully extricated his fingers from Sherlock's mouth. Thank god he had trousers on, if nothing else. That was entirely inappropriate. "Sherlock. Talk to me."

Doctor Rogers hurried over. "Isoflurane, for the mice. It should wear off quickly."

John looked up at the scientist. " _Mouse_ tranquilizer?"

"John..."

John looked back down at Sherlock. The man still didn’t look quite himself. "Yes, it's me. John."

Sherlock licked his lips. _Another_ John? They would _definitely_ need more beds.

John stroked Sherlock's cheek, gently. Was he coming back to himself? "Wake up, Sherlock."

Doctor Rogers looked down on them both, considering.

"There'r... more of you."

"More of... _what_?"

No more echo. The image (rutting, sweating, writhing) was fading fast; Sherlock frowned. "More than two..."

"It's John. Just John." John smiled wryly. "Only one of me."

"Just one." It was grey, now. The dull background grey of a headache.

"Yes, as many as always. How is your head?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, and there was... John. Just as always.

John breathed a sigh of relief.

"Is he all right?" Doctor Rogers asked, leaning over John's shoulder.

"Isoflurane," Sherlock muttered. No one would just leave that lying around; an obvious trap disguised as incompetence.

"Yes... can you stand up?" John urged.

"Cloning." His legs would not respond, despite the frantic messages from his brain.

John looked up at Doctor Rogers.

"That's not what this is all about," she said, tightly. "I've cloned a few genes - I'm writing one up right now - but this is about..." She bit her lip, clearly unsure how much to trust them.

"The London Marathon,” Sherlock replied. “Yes, we know." 

Doctor Rogers looked back and forth between Sherlock and John, her eyes wide. "You know."

"Of course,” Sherlock snapped, “why else would we be here?"

"I thought you were from Astana," she replied, looking at the two of them warily. "I mean, I thought _he_ was." She pointed at John.

"Why?" John asked, sliding his arm under Sherlock's shoulders and trying to pull the man to his feet.

"They're one of many interested parties,” Sherlock replied. “We represent the British Government. Against our better judgment. Well, against mine."

"They laughed me off when I went to Scotland Yard!" she protested.

"So often the way."

"So they made me believe that they thought I was making it up, and then they sent that bloke to spy on me?" Doctor Rogers pointed at John, clearly upset.

"Oh, far from it. With some very few exceptions, they really are that obnoxiously stupid. Thankfully, our nation does not rely on them when it comes to developments such as these."

"Just tell me. What are you two doing here?" The two goons glared at Sherlock and John from behind her.

"We want to know your intentions."

"You know my bloody intentions!” she sighed. “I want to patent this and get it used _properly_."

"We know _now_ , yes." She had not tried to kill them, after all.

"What _is_ 'this'?" John asked. He was the one who had been kidnapped and stripped and drugged because of it, after all!

"What do you expect me to do now?" She ignored John's question, looking between them nervously.

"Nothing." God, this place was _filthy_ , by lab standards; there were traces of dust all over his shirt. Sherlock brushed it off, absent-mindedly.

"You've just come by to... find out what I'm doing, and leave me to the machinations of..." Doctor Rogers flailed her hand in the general direction of well-heeled cycling teams.

"I think you'll find they'll leave you be, from now on." He turned to John, giving him a more close inspection. No serious damage appeared to have been done.

"Why? How can I be sure of that?"

"Well, I would have presented you with some evidence to that effect, but I'm afraid my colleague rather jumped the gun on me."

"What _were_ you doing?" She spun slightly to face John more directly.

"Flirting with you!" John replied, exasperated. Why didn't she believe him?

"To gain your trust, in order to achieve through diplomacy what otherwise might have required subterfuge." Sherlock gave John a meaningful look. They might well try to appear _somewhat_ professional.

John sighed. That made him sound a bit of an arsehole, didn't it.

Doctor Rogers crossed her arms. "Well done."

"I think, doctor, that under the circumstances you might consider..." He waved a hand at John's general state of nudity.

John let go of Sherlock to pick up his shirt and quickly put it on. Speaking of coming across as an arsehole, he told himself irritably.

Ah. Nothing subtle about the way the other good doctor's eyes surveyed John's body, however much she might think otherwise. "If I might make a suggestion..:"

"Yes?" she asked, tartly.

"I'm sure Doctor Watson would be happy to remain here as a show of good faith, while I make arrangements to secure further evidence." He gave her his best rehearsed smile.

"I... what?"

"Won't you, John?" He had seemed eager enough for her company earlier.

"If you think so..." John eyed the goons warily.

"Doctor Rogers?"

"How long will your 'arrangements' take?"

"I can only estimate, but if all goes well, about the amount of time it would take for a moderately priced high end automobile to reach us from..." His phone buzzed. "Excuse me a moment."

Doctor Rogers stepped closer to John as Sherlock pulled out his phone. "Sorry about... all that."

"That's... quite all right, really..." She had a bit of a predatory look in her eye, John noted. _She's seen your erect penis,_ his brain supplied, unhelpfully. He glanced at Sherlock, who was typing with a frown on his face.

"Perhaps I could get you dinner to make up for it," she murmured.

Sherlock eyed the pair critically; Doctor Rogers hovering over John, quite the predator. She was certainly John’s type, in as much as he had one; it seemed to be 'has breasts'. Sherlock turned his attention back to his phone, but the message thereon had, sadly, not changed.

"Yes, that would be... nice." If she was still interested after seeing him naked and babbling, that was a good sign, wasn't it?

Sherlock cleared his throat, pointedly. "It seems I was mistaken."

"About what?" Doctor Rogers asked. John was startled at how quickly her demeanor snapped back to 'all business.'

"How long it would take to resolve this." He turned his phone towards her. "I was told this would have significance to you."

Her eyes widened. "Is he... on the phone... behind it all?"

"Far from it." Mycroft's theatrics be damned; why couldn't he simply have someone show up and smooth things over? "He is the British Government, and he's entirely on your side, now."

"So you say." She frowned, clearly suspicious.

"Yes, well; it seems to be all that's forthcoming at the moment." It would be rather awkward to have John kept hostage indefinitely. Or would he not mind?

Doctor Rogers sat in the chair recently vacated by John, rubbing her face in her hands. "Oh, lord, what _do_ I do now." She sat back, looking up at the two of them with a sigh. "I'm a scientist. I don't deal well with... conspiracies, and people who break into my house in the middle of the night, and... all this. It's not what I _do_."

"Yes, well, with all due respect, you're clearly not going to kill us, so I'd say your options are limited."

She regained her composure a bit and sat up straight. "I'll keep you _both_ here. You can have your 'proof' run over by someone else, if the fellow on the other end of that mobile is so powerful."

"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, just below what he confidently judged to be the threshold of her hearing.

She nodded, tightly, then glanced at John. He looked down. Now that his brain had nothing else to gnaw on, it went back to the _do not think about sex_ sexual antics of lunchtime. Thank you, brain, he thought, irritably.

* * *

It was little more than a cupboard, the little room to which they had been consigned. John had expected something about that utilitarian and sparse, and certainly, he’d expected a restless and tetchy Sherlock to greet him. "Hey." John licked his lips. They tasted like her flavored chapstick.

"Did you enjoy looking at day old chicken and picking at soggy chips?" It was almost obscenely obvious, the minutiae of their absurd little ‘date’. The smell of reheated chicken still lingered on John’s clothes (and how that would annoy him), his fingers shone with fat the paper towels used in lieu of napkins had not managed to remove (lack of cutlery). The drops of stearin near his cuff (too close to a cheap candle, leaning over the table) and the fact that he had not removed nor noticed any of the above spoke entire volumes of its own. 

"Not particularly, no." The food hadn't been pleasing, although the company had.

"Not the only thing you picked at." He could elaborate, but why? As Mycroft had not responded by now, it meant he would not until morning, or certainly mid-afternoon, at the earliest. They had to fill the time somehow, and bickering was just the ticket.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Didn't John deserve a little sex now and then?

"By all means." Sherlock shifted on the small cot; the only thing resembling a bed in the room. Did she know he preferred not to sleep during a case, or had she not intended for John to sleep here at all?

"Why?" John leaned against the wall.

"Why what?"

"Why do you mind?"

"Mind; why would I mind - snog who you like; fuck who you like, for that matter." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, turning towards the dull grey wall.

"Yes, I can tell you're perfectly happy," John deadpanned.

"I'm fine."

"All right." John looked up at the ceiling. It would be an annoying night.

"She was right about the wine."

"It was terrible." There was nothing to like about the dinner save the company.

"It was also German, not French. I'd tell you the vintage, but I can _hear_ your eyes glazing over."

"Yes, the degree to which I care about the country of origin of the wine couldn't really go much lower." John found a cleaning bucket to upturn and sit on.

"She seems nice." 

John sighed; the way Sherlock said the word, it might as well rhyme with ‘scum’. "When will Mycroft be here?"

"Considering he's not here yet, not until tomorrow, certainly." 

"So we're stuck here all night?"

"So it would seem."

John sighed again and stood, pawing through the cleaning supplies. There had to be a vent somewhere, some means of escape.

"Oh, good plan. And once we've escaped through the non-existent ventilation shafts, we'll be sure to have earned her trust!" Hyperbole; there were shafts, though not of a feasible size for anyone to crawl through, and hardly the point. Sherlock glared, daring John to call him on it. 

John looked over at Sherlock. "You're just going to sit here all night?"

"No, I'm going to sit here and _think_." 

"Fine, go right ahead." John sat back down on his bucket with a sigh. Trapped all night with a pissy Sherlock, after a horrid dinner and a frustratingly abbreviated snog.

"She was just looking for an excuse to let you stay with her," Sherlock said, after an all-too-awkward pause.

"She was pretty quick to send me off to the closet with you."

"You were too much of a gentleman, as always."

"Hardly!" John snorted.

"Did she ask if there was anything else you wanted, and if there was anything else she could possibly do to help?"

"Not in so many words..."

"While not looking directly at you."

"Yes..." What did that matter?

Sherlock shared an exasperated look with the wall. "Oh, for heaven's sake..."

"What?"

"Do you need me to spell it out for you?"

Sex? Was Sherlock saying that she wanted to go farther than they had? "Surely she didn't want to... We just met!"

"You were perfectly willing to accept it when you followed her into her car."

"I wasn't expecting..." Not that he would have minded, of course!

"Of course not. And when she unbuttoned her blouse, you assumed it was just the heat."

"She has nice breasts," John muttered. Shapely, not too big - just the right size for a good handful each. So he estimated, at least.

"Well, I wouldn't know."

John pointed at the door, in the vague direction of the lab. "Are you saying she would have slept with me?" Had he just bolloxed a golden opportunity?

"Of _course_ she would have slept with you!" You could smell the attraction from across the room. Unfortunately.

"Hell," John muttered, looking at the door. Sex with an attractive woman, rather than locked in a closet with a sullen Sherlock.

"I thought that was one of the few things you were actually able to deduce on your own."

"She was acting shy."

"Because she _is_ shy." Good _grief!_

"And horny, you say?" Maybe John could bang on the door, summon a goon, get a chance to talk to her again.

"Yes, of course!"

"Do you think I still have a chance?"

"In time; she'll be frustrated and annoyed, now."

"Oh." John settled back on his upturned bucket. How had he missed it? That she was interested? Was he losing his touch?

"Oh, you'll get your chance."

"When we're formally discharged tomorrow from our hostage situation?" he asked, tartly. Well, perhaps he could go look her up later. But it was never as good as striking when the iron was hot, as it were.

"Settle down. She's more than interested."

"Is she?" John looked over at Sherlock. The man seemed less irritated at the idea than he had before, certainly.

" _Yes_ " Honestly, it was like talking to a child.

"Well, then." John settled against the wall. It might be a bit of a long night, but he'd spent nights in worse places.

"Get some sleep."

"You're on the only bed."

"Fine, I'll move." Sherlock shifted one picometer to the left.

"Make sure you send some postcards from over there," John muttered, slipping onto the cot next to Sherlock.

"I'm not sitting on a bucket; these are bespoke trousers."

John looked over at them. Sherlock had paid _money_ for those things? "Why?"

"Because someone very expensively made them to measure." Sherlock spoke as to a child.

"I was asking, why spend an obscene amount of money on... obscenely tight trousers?"

Sherlock frowned. "They're not tight; they're fitted."

"Obscenely _fitted_ trousers, then."

"They're made to fit my body, there's nothing obscene about that."

John shook his head. That man was impossible.

Sherlock sighed. The idea of remaining seated while John slept was not altogether appealing. He rose, awkwardly.

John stretched out on the cot, gratefully. It was a basic, hard cot, but that was fine. It had been a very long day indeed, and he would take whatever wasn’t a floor.

There was nowhere else to sit but the bucket. Sherlock hovered, uncertainly.

"You can sit on the edge." Bloody Sherlock. John shifted back towards the wall to make room.

"I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you."

"You'll only disturb me if you lurk and pace all night."

"I hope you're not suggesting I get in there with you."

"Room enough to sit." Couldn't the man just take a friendly offer with a little grace?

"Fine." Sherlock took a seat near the wall; at least that seemed clean enough to lean against.

John closed his eyes. That way, he didn't have to stare at Sherlock's buttock. The cot wasn't bad, really; he could sleep.

"At least you don't snore," Sherlock muttered.

"I've been told I do."

"You don't "

"Mph." Did he only snore after sex? It was certainly possible.

"Unless you've-" Ah. Best not bring that up. Was it too late? 

"What?" Oh god.

"Nothing; never mind."

John opened his eyes, hiking himself up onto his elbow. "No, what?" He wasn't going to just let this pass, whatever it was.

Bad. Very bad. John had an instinct for these things; it was uncanny. "Forget it."

"I'm not about to just forget it!" It felt so... invasive. Sherlock knew of his personal habits, more than John was comfortable with, and this was just another step in that direction. He should at least come clean about it.

"You snore when you've..." Would he have to say it?"

"When I'm what?" John egged on, exasperated.

"When you masturbate." Sherlock tried for casual, uninterested. The wall appeared unimpressed with his performance.

"How do you know when I..." John licked his lips.

"Yes, I'm sure you can imagine." He was loud enough to wake the dead, despite all evidence to the contrary, during the Evans case.

"Are you listening?" Surely he wasn't _that_ loud; he bit a pillow...

"It's hard not to."

"I'm very quiet," John protested, flopping onto his back.

"Oh yes. Quite loudly so."

"You're just taking the piss, now." He must be. How long had they been living together, almost a year? And how many times a week did John... satisfy himself? Any rational roommate would have politely requested a quieting down, by now.

"Why would I make something like that up?" _Having sex with himself_ , his Id pointed out, unhelpfully.

"Why would you use my good paring knife to cut up kidneys?" Who knew why Sherlock did anything?

"Because it was the best available tool for the job; what does that have to do with anything?" And now he had an erection. Fantastic. This night would just _fly_ by.

"I have a scalpel! I have a fair variety of them!" Sherlock likely did, too.

"And Jane Ahn was not stabbed with a scalpel, was she?"

"I washed that thirteen times." And somehow, could still taste blood. All in his head, perhaps, but that still wasn't right.

"Good, then it should be clean by now." _Settle down_ , he told himself. If only he could sleep. That, however, was unlikely.

John nodded. Well, the conversation had moved away from his tackle, at least. Against all probability – perhaps lingering effects of adrenaline and the drug he had been administered? - as he lay down again, he drifted into a restless sleep.

* * *

Sherlock sat quietly, his back as flush as was comfortable up against the frequently unhelpful wall. John was not a large man, in any sense of the word, but avoiding touch while this close was next to impossible. 

Predictably, it had given him an erection.

John slept restlessly, muttering and grasping at any warm body near him; the fact that the nearest body happened to be Sherlock was unfortunate. The bucket, or even the floor, were seeming saner alternatives by the minute, but then again... then again, John was a sound sleeper, especially with some alcohol in him. And really, what would the harm be? John would not remember; and in the way of these things, if he did, he would attribute it to dreams. As John’s hands grew bolder in their blind groping, so did Sherlock, shifting nearer, letting John grab his thigh in a firm grip. Then the man _exhaled_ in a ridiculously pleased sort of way and cuddled – the only word for it – closer.

Right. Now, he just had to relax. Simple, really. There were quite a few meditation techniques that... Sherlock went through four of them before giving up. Fine. Let his mind wander. Did it matter? Thoughts would hardly wake John. Very few things might. Hm. Dangerous thought, that. Sherlock moved his hand a little up his own thigh, experimentally. John did not stir. Up to his pelvis. No reaction. Good. If he could reach- 

"Cynthia,” John muttered, kissing Sherlock’s twitching thigh. _Cynthia_. Ridiculous name. John would be taken with it; he was always a sentimental idiot. To a fault. Sherlock lay very still, holding his breath. John pressed his crotch against the cot a few times, but absent any other motion from Sherlock, he settled down again. Sherlock allowed himself a breath of temporary relief.

 _Bad idea._ Yes, but when would the opportunity arise again? Never. Of that Sherlock could be fairly certain. He slid down further, slowly, letting John's hand slip around his body. It was an easy fit; he was tall, but slight. A surprisingly easy fit. And there, too sudden, like a jolt, was John’s _arm_ around him, John’s – fuck – semi-erection pressing against Sherlock's buttocks. A... oh god. Sherlock swallowed a whimper. _Such_ a bad idea. But John was so warm, so _hard_ ; Christ, who could blame him? John pressed his face into Sherlock's neck, with a quiet little snore. "Fine, you do snore," Sherlock muttered, resisting the urge to press back into John's embrace (mistake, huge mistake) and felt John’s now-hard cock against his buttocks, firmly – all a physical reaction, all perfectly understandable, inevitable, im-fucking- _possible_. This was wrong; it felt wrong, in every way except for the myriad ways in which it felt fantastic. He couldn't rut against John; the man would wake, for one; for another, it was... there, he was already doing it. Sherlock gave in to himself, sighing.

John found himself sliding into consciousness. He was still on that hard cot, but Cynthia had come into the room – oh, good, she _must_ want him, to come in and lie with him, her firm buttocks against him, her soft hair against his face. He made a satisfied little noise.

 _Christ_ ; John was awake! The only thing for it was to feign sleep. Sherlock let himself go limp, his breathing even.

Wait... this body... tall, slender, sweet-smelling, yes, but surely she wouldn't clamber into a cot with him while Sherlock was... oh, god, _Sherlock_! What had... what had he... John froze.

The important thing at this point was not to panic. Simply breathe. Keep breathing, slow and evenly.

Slowly, slowly, ever so carefully, John removed his arm from Sherlock. The man must have fallen asleep, and John, in his sleep, must have moved close, cuddling... well. Thank goodness Sherlock hadn't woken during _that_!

Could he... perhaps he could. John was too caught up in his own terror to even consider Sherlock's state of wakefulness. And so, he shifted back as John moved away, bridging the gap again.

Oh, god. John held still as Sherlock pressed close in his sleep. At least, he made no voluntary movements; his cock pressed back against Sherlock's buttocks. It had a mind of its own, and it certainly liked buttocks. Not terribly discerning, though, he noted irritably.

There - John would not move; he could have this just a little while longer. Sherlock exhaled quietly, in lieu of a sigh.

This was _agonizing_. No matter how firmly John told his cock that this was _Sherlock_ , not a proper target for sexual attraction, it wouldn't listen. It only knew that there were tempting buttocks pressed against it. He thrust, ever so slightly.

Oh, that was _too much_. It took all of Sherlock's considerable restraint not to push back, groan; plead for more. He did not beg. He _could_ not.

John took hold of himself mentally, firmly. No movement, he told himself. Could he get away with this? Wait, what in god's name was he trying to get away with! While his brain was occupied with this moral dilemma, his cock happily moved back and forth against Sherlock's buttocks.

He wasn't... he wasn't going to stop. His mind still on that _woman_. Well, who was Sherlock to deny him. He pushed back, just slightly, disguising it as a subtle shift.

Oh. John bit his lip, hard, to keep from moaning. Was his best course just to come? It would be a hideous abuse of trust in some ways, but it would bring all of this to a close, let him go back to sleep.

What would it be like to kiss John? An absurd thought; it would never be worth trying, pointless to speculate. Still. The taste was something to imagine, as Sherlock stretched, wanting more of John's body closer.

John wouldn't be able to come without an amount of friction that would surely wake Sherlock, but he had a shortcut. He wetted the index finger of his free hand, sliding it down the back of his trousers, thankful he wasn't wearing a belt. And didn't have obscenely tight bespoke trousers.

Sound - movement - the feel of John's arm, brushing... Oh. Sherlock's mind went blissfully blank. He shivered.

John quickly slipped his finger inside of himself. _Yes_.

So easy to imagine he could turn, and John would simply take his mouth, and they would lose themselves in this, and tomorrow, all would be forgotten. That would not happen. He _must not_ do that. So tempting, though, for every passing second...

Since he could not move any part of himself that was close to Sherlock, John thrust into himself hard and fast. Yes, he could come from this.

No one would stay asleep through this, and in a moment, post orgasm, John would realize that, and recoil - and worse - _think_. That had to be stopped. Sherlock stirred, as if just waking.

Oh, no. John yanked his finger out, pressing back against the wall.

"John?" His voice was groggy. No need for pretense, there.

"Yes?" John said, too quickly.

"I must have fallen asleep..."

"Yes." John's cock ached.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine. Yes, fine. Thanks." John rubbed his face with his hand.

"I didn't mean to wake you. Sorry."

"Sorry?" When did Sherlock ever apologize for anything? Particularly not waking up John.

"That's what people say, isn't it?" Somewhat overdone. John wasn't stupid.

"Yes..." John frowned. Something wasn't right. _Like you trying to get off against his bum?_ his brain snarked, unhelpfully.

"Then go back to sleep." There's hoping.

"I'm not sleepy." Horny and disturbed, yes.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but what could he possibly say to that. ‘Nothing’ was probably best.

John felt an urge to get up and pace, but his state would be obvious to... Well, it was probably obvious already. This was Sherlock, after all. John leapt to his feet, pacing aggressively.

Sherlock shrugged, settling back down. That was that. They would never speak of it again.

He had to say something. This couldn't just slide. "Look. Sorry."

"For what?" God, no; don't _talk_ about it! 

"For... _that_." John waved his hand at the cot.

"Sleeping?"

"No! The..." John waved his hand again.

"The _what?_ "

John paused, frowning. He _must_ know. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. Was this some kind of joke?

Not so easily dismissed, of course. Placated, perhaps? He narrowed his eyes. "Do you think that was somehow inappropriate? Why? You were asleep, clearly dreaming, and aroused. Why should I be offended?"

"Not all of it." John wasn’t asleep for that last bit, and Sherlock should bloody well know.

Sherlock met his eyes. "Let's be clear, here. Are you saying that you were _not_ asleep, in which case you knew exactly what was going on with all the implications and consequences thereof? Or have I misunderstood you, and we can just forget about this and carry on?" He kept his face neutral. John's, of course, would not be. And that would be key.

John's lips tightened. Of course it was the former! That was the whole point!

Non-verbal communication. How tiring. "Please. I get enough of that with Mycroft. Tell me."

"The first! Obviously!" _Mycroft_?

"What is it you get enough of with me?"

The door had opened so quietly Sherlock had taken it for a noise in another room. He didn't give Mycroft the pleasure of turning in surprise. "Took you long enough."

John's eyes snapped to Mycroft. Oh, just perfect.

"I didn't have to come here in the middle of-"

"Please. If there was any way in which you could have avoided it, you would not have been here."

John leaned back against the wall, pulling in a breath. The issue had been deferred, only, that much he knew.

"I've smoothed things over with the good doctor, you'll be glad to know." He glanced in John's direction. "She sends her very best regards to you, John."

Sherlock refrained from comment. Not to Mycroft, of course, much as he'd like to. He _felt_ the man smirk.

John bit his lip. Not a good time for _that_ comment.

"You're free to go, naturally," Mycroft noted as Sherlock brushed past him. He had no idea what time it was, but there would be a taxi out there _somewhere_. If it would keep him from having to use his brother's overstated cars, he'd _walk_ back to Baker Street.

John nodded uneasily at Mycroft as he hurried out after Sherlock. Who knew how much the man could deduce? All of it, probably.

* * *

John licked his lips as they waited for a second taxi, the first having been mysteriously (and annoyingly) dismissed by Sherlock with a ‘he wants us to take that one’. Bloody ‘sibling’ issues with Mycroft again, probably. Sherlock did seem particularly cut-off and broody, but nonetheless – "Anyway. What I was saying." This would infect 221B if he didn't get it dealt with. 

"Hm?" Was there _no stopping_ the man?!

"I have to apologize. I was a bit half asleep, yes, but that's no excuse."

"Apology accepted." Sherlock stared resolutely at his feet.

John frowned. "That's all?" Wasn't there a little more to be said when your flatmate practically molested you?

"What else do you want?" 

"Nothing." Another possibility had hit John. Sherlock was disgusted by the whole experience, and wanted to forget it. Well, that was fair enough. The man may be gay - John was about 90% clear on that - but that didn't mean he liked any man you please to fondle him.

"Good." Sherlock exhaled in relief.

John looked down. Well, that was that, then. He had practically molested Sherlock, and Sherlock wanted to just forget it had ever happened.

"I took no offense. I told you." 

"Yes. All right." No offense. Sherlock's buttocks, firm, too firm, hard against his cock.

"I shouldn't have come to bed with you in the first place." A taxi meandered past. Sherlock held out his arm, halting it. 

"There was only one bed," John muttered.

The taxi pulled up, and Sherlock got in without further comment.

John slid into the taxi, careful to not touch Sherlock. Not appropriate, not at all, for the moment.

* * *

There was no attempt at conversation on the ride home, despite it taking more than three quarters of an hour. Even for John, that was stretching things. The man was thinking, Sherlock knew. He also knew what about, naturally, and without Mycroft’s meager case to distract him, the thoughts were as loud as low flying jets. Still, there were topics of conversation even Sherlock didn’t feel like going over in a cab; after recent events, he’d developed something of a distaste for them. By the time they reached home (interesting word, that), their coats discarded along with the strain in their shoulders, or at least John’s, Sherlock had to speak. He needed this place, out of all, to be clean>. "You keep going over it in your mind. A mental tally." 

John looked up from the kettle. "What?"

"Am I Gay Or Not." Sherlock waved his arms theatrically. "I groped that fellow in Camden, but that was for a case, so you'll discount that; then, there was the Bremen incident - what did you call it; 'The Adventure of the Wrong Suitcase', so help you -"

"It's not my business," John interrupted, quickly, pulling the tea out and dumping it into the teapot.

"Then there was that informant in Italy; I didn't rebuff him, but I didn't encourage him either, still, that's what made you think. The Woman, she threw you for a loop, didn't she, but you're still quite certain - about 90%, I'd say - well, I wouldn't, but you would."

"It's not. My. Business." John watched the tea steep. What did it matter? Gay or not? It didn't change those endless touches between them - Sherlock wasn't interested, there was no threat, they were _colleagues_. Yet his brain kept going back. Molly's breasts, very watchable, not a hint of interest in Sherlock's eyes. Yet no reaction, either, when the man barged in on Lestrade in the shower.

"Yet here you are, still trying to figure it out." Sherlock took the teapot from his hands, adding a pinch more and adding water.

"It doesn't matter," John replied, looking out the window, as if trying to convince himself.

"You could _ask_. Did that occur to you?"

"Yes. It's not my business." He didn't want to hear the answer. Straight? Gay, but uninterested? John wasn't gay, and anyway, none of this should _matter_.

Sherlock shrugged, setting the pot aside.

John took a deep breath, pulling out the milk. For once, the refrigerator’s contents were halfway civilized.

"I think we have some biscuits."

John poked into the cupboard. The biscuits were a little stale, but didn't appear to have had anything unspeakable spilled on them, so he pulled them out.

Sherlock grabbed two as the packet was still in John's hand - he hadn't eaten for days.

John watched Sherlock's ferocity of mastication. "When was the last time you ate?" he asked, accusingly.

"Probably Tuesday," Sherlock muttered between crumbs.

"I tried to get you to have dinner with me two days ago, and you said you just ate!"

"Just is relative."

"I need to be more specific," John grumbled, adding sugar and milk to his tea.

"Two sugars." John should know by now, but the biscuits had reminded Sherlock how hungry he was.

John knew that very well by now. Did Sherlock think all this questioning of sexuality also affected tea preference? Best to make nothing of it; John dropped two sugars into Sherlock's tea.

Sherlock grabbed the cup. Dear god, proper _tea_. He sighed, inhaling the aroma.

John left Sherlock to it, walking over to his chair. Well. Another adventure done and dusted. He might not write this one up - especially as Cynthia might read it. Cynthia. That was a thought.

"I saw you eyeing the laptop - don't even think about it."

"Why not?" If Sherlock's sexuality was no business of John's, and it wasn't - surely John's was no business of Sherlock's.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow over the rim of his cup. "You'd like to go back to that cupboard? Be my guest. You saw Mycroft's text - no press."

John sipped his tea. "I'd like to see her again."

"Fine."

"It'd be a bit creepy to just head over there. Do you think she's reading her emails?" She was being threatened, after all.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Here." He pulled phone out, typing deliberately, then stuffed it back in his pocket. He smacked at the tea. It had lost all flavor.

"Wh..." John's mobile buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. A telephone number, from Sherlock. "Oh... thanks."

"Phone tomorrow. She'll be too uncertain to."

"All right." John put the phone aside. That was all right, then, wasn't it?

"And I do think so."

"Think so - what?"

"That you deserve her. And your privacy." Useless cup deposited on the counter, Sherlock turned towards his bedroom.

"Deserve her?" Was that underhanded spite? Was there something John didn't know about this situation?

"No underhanded snark. Not this time." He shut the door behind him.

* * *

John drained his tea. He deserves her. And his privacy. Well, that was a sign, of sorts. _Leave me alone_. And probably, there was some 'keep your cock off of me' in there, as well.

John put his cup aside, heading up to the bathroom. He felt filthy, in more than one way, and despite the water being stubbornly just this side of too hot, no matter how much he fiddled with the taps, he still had an erection as he lathered himself with soap. John blamed the abbreviated snogging session with Cynthia, and the abbreviated masturbation session later. He could deal with that. Stuffing the loofah in his mouth, he wanked hard and fast, coming in a ridiculously short time.

Those necessities taken care of, he left the shower, toweled himself off, and dressed, feeling almost ready to face the day.

* * *

And there it was. The telltale silence as John contemplated, the lack of movement (so signified by the change in the sound of water) and then, the little un-sounds, not really there. Sherlock leaned against the wall, all this information flowing through it as though water leaking from the shower into him, onto him.

Sherlock sighed, letting it go as he pushed away, fell onto the bed.

He could masturbate, but what would be the point?

* * *

Some days, the world did seem to be going in John's direction.

The dinner had been expensive, and well worth it; the food light and flavorful, the wine surprisingly intoxicating. That wine alone might have been the reason Cynthia jumped into his lap shortly after they had started chatting in her flat. He had admired the view, admired the picture of her at her matriculation with her sister, and suddenly, his arms were full of the good doctor's slender curves under what turned out to be a very silky dress.

The kissing was everything kissing should be; wet, close, full of tongues and hands moving to various places. His mouth found her breasts at some point, when both her dress and his shirt had flown by the wayside; her nipples were pert, and she shivered and moaned as he flicked them with his tongue, her panties dampening as he ran his fingers between your legs.

Of course, he protested that they really didn't _have_ to when she reached for the pack of condoms in the bedside table, but when she assured him with a laugh that she would be very happy if they did, he slid the condom on himself and eased inside. She did rather a lot of moaning about how big he was, which she really didn't _need_ to; he wasn't the type of bloke to need his ego upheld. So he captured her mouth, moving slowly and firmly while he slowly, slowly stroked her clitoris, reading her reactions; she should come, first (maybe a few times if she was the kind to), and then after a little more horseplay, he could, too...

His mobile buzzed, vibrating the side table in harmony. John's eyes flicked over to it out of habit, and the text was unequivocal - _Your presence needed immediately_ , from Sherlock. John sighed, pulling back.

"What is it?" Cynthia asked, frowning.

"I have to go..." John peeled the condom off, picking up his pants and trousers from the floor. Sherlock was in trouble, again. Damn the man; couldn't he leave John alone for just one evening?

"You have to go? _Now_?" She pushed herself up on her elbows, panting, red-faced.

"Yes... I'm sorry. Look, can I get a rain check? We'll have dinner to..." No, not tomorrow, Sherlock had said they were going to France. "Friday."

"Friday."

"Yes. I'll call you. All right? This was fantastic, really fantastic..." He kissed her on the forehead, pulling his shirt on as he hurried out of the door.

* * *

It was a fair cab ride from Wembly to Wimbledon, but on arrival, Sherlock's tall, lean figure was unmistakable in the light of the street lamps. John hastily paid the cabbie, then ran across the pavement to where Sherlock stood. "What is it?"

"Oh. Good." That was quick; she must have been rather eager. "Stand over there."

"Wh... why? What's wrong?" The man didn't seem injured...

"You're about her height; I need to see if you'll fit under the overhang."

John frowned. Standing under and overhang. That couldn’t be – was that it? "Wait - is that what you called me for? To mark a height?"

"Yes, and I can't do it from where your standing right now." Sherlock shifted, warily. They would be thrown out of this area if security passed by again. Perhaps he shouldn't have made that quip about her hat.

"That's _all_? You said it was urgent!" As John was pulling his clothes on, the second text - _All England Club, #1 Court - urgent_.

"It _is_ urgent; they could throw me out any moment!"

Frustration bubbled up in John's viscera, seething into anger. "Sherlock, I was having _sex_! I thought you needed me for something important, not something that you could use a... bloody measuring tape for!"

"Keep your voice down!" It would be minutes; he couldn't be more accurate, because the bloody woman kept stopping to light another cigarette; probably why she got this job; he couldn't imagine she'd survive five minutes in a place she couldn't smoke.

"You want me to k..." John shook his head, scratched his hair, and let out a snort of utterly unamused laughter.

"You're her height, you're her build; now will you get to it!" Sherlock jabbed a finger in the direction of the drab-looking kiosk.

John thrust his hands into his pockets and stalked over to the kiosk. It served him right, didn't it. No matter how often Sherlock cried ‘wolf,’ John would keep coming. He was the master detective, though - couldn't he deduce that John was _involved_ with a woman - for the first time since coming back from Afghanistan - and could stand to have an uninterrupted night?

"Perfect!" Just as he thought - the outline John's shadow cast on the wall perfectly matched-

"Oi! What did I tell you!" a voice rang out. John whipped his head around towards the newcomer.

" _Run!_ " _Five yards to the left, out the gate and into the street where the taxis ran, 17 seconds at most._

"Run?" What on earth?” John asked, bemused.

"TRUST ME, JOHN!" _20 seconds now, at best - dammit!_

John sighed, shaking his head, and ran.


End file.
